


Memories of the Past

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Caretaking, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Poor Prompto, Time Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Noct wipes his brow with his bare forearm and returns the magic flask that contains his other fire spells to his pocket. He turns, a smile quirking the corner of his lips, words of congratulations for Ignis half-formed on his tongue.They die unspoken at the sight that greets him. Because there, back pressed against the damp stone of the wall, is a small blond boy that looks about six years old.He's absolutely swimming in Prompto's vest and coeurl-print jeans; the top comes down past his knees, so long it looks like a dress on him. Prompto's wrist band has slipped all the way up to the boy's bony elbow, dangling with room to spare, and Prompto's gloves swallow his hands and most of his wrists completely.One of Prompto's guns rests on the ground at the boy's feet. He's got the cylinder of the second open, while his free hand digs frantically in his pocket. But even as Noct watches, he does a quick sweep of the cylinder's contents with his eyes, snaps it closed, and brings the weapon up, two-handed, barrel trained on Noct.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon on the kink meme who wanted:
> 
> A monster or some kind of plant turns Prompto back into a child, erasing his memories temporarily of his adulthood and leaving him with the memories from when he lived in Niflheim. He is aged down from before he made his escape, so he is fearful of his surroundings and thinks that Noctis, Ignis and Gladio are guards that are meant to punish him or something. Cue doting chocobros who want what's best for their friend and are horrified to learn the truth about his origins this way. Horrified because judging from Prompto's fearful expressions, he was treated badly over there and not horrified because of what he was.

The cavern's not the worst place they've been, but as far as Noct's concerned, it's in the running for the top five.

The floors are slick with water, treacherous footing included, and the ceilings are low enough that Gladio has to stoop in the smaller chambers. It's packed with daemons they've never seen before, too – massive centipedal bodies with pale, elongated human torsos, and fleshy winged globs riddled with eyes, and creatures that shift together and come apart again like sand.

It's the last one they're fighting now. Trying to fight, anyway.

Every time Noct swings his sword, the golden grains that make up the creature's mass part before the blade and come back together again behind it. Or it skitters and jerks, jumping from one place to another faster than the eye can follow. Or it stops _Noct_ , and he's stuck there, unmoving, until its magic wears off and he can rejoin the fray.

It's frustrating as hell. None of them can hit it. Even Prompto, whose shots are usually a guarantee against enemies that are quick on their feet, can't seem to pin it down.

Noct holds out his hand – feels the Bow of the Clever solidify beneath his fingers, still tingling with the last vestiges of magic. He gets off three quick shots and watches the creature's grainy form swallow them up like they're nothing at all. On the other side of the daemon, Ignis is swinging his lance around for a blow, but the creature just conveniently isn't there when the tip comes down. It's on the other side of the room.

"Hey, guys?" calls Prompto, when one of his shots passes right through the thing and ricochets off the wall. "We, uh. We got any kind of plan here?"

"We need something," Gladio grunts in agreement, as the blade of his massive sword clangs against the stone ground. "Damn thing won't stay still."

It's true. They haven't got a single hit in on it, and the creature keeps darting in, inflicting tiny stinging cuts, and darting away again. Sometimes, the shifting grains look almost like a face, with narrowed eyes and a laughing mouth. Sometimes, Noct swears the image seems more like the face of a clock, round and flat, with the suggestion of pointing hands.

"Specs?" Noct says. "Any ideas?"

"If it's sand, we may be able to melt it," Ignis says, thoughtful. "Provided we're able to get the flame hot enough."

Noct nods, and reaches for a flask of his strongest fire magic. "On it," he says.

It's like the daemon can understand them. It stills suddenly, and the clock flickers into view across the smooth, undulating surface of its body. Then it spreads up and out, like a firework bursting in slow motion. The grains are everywhere – in Noct's eyes, and in his mouth. He feels a strange surge rush through him, almost like nostalgia, but that can't be right, can it? How the hell is he nostalgic for a fight in a damp cave against some weird sand daemon?

He rubs at his eyes, and he shakes his head, and the feeling fades. Nothing's out of place, so he goes for the flask again.

That's when he hears Prompto coughing, just once or twice at first, but it fades into a full-on hacking fit. Noct spares him a glance – sees that he's doubled over, arms wrapped around his abdomen like he's trying to hold himself together. Noct hopes, suddenly, that he didn't breathe the sand in.

He has no idea what that would do, but he knows he doesn't want to find out.

The daemon's coming back together now, golden strands that twist and curl to form a cohesive figure. Noct pulls back his arm to take aim – centers the spell at a point just under the creature's feet. He can feel the warm pull of the magic in his chest, the gathering of energy that swirls and swells, ready to escape.

Then the sound of gunfire explodes, not just one shot, or two, but twelve, one after the next – enough for a standard set of revolvers to run out of ammo. Prompto's won't, of course. The Armiger will keep him ready to go, no matter what. But the guns fall silent all the same, immediately after, and Noct doesn't have time to check and see what's going on. He's too busy guiding the spell.

Firaga bursts across the ground like the rage of the Infernian, blazing hot. Noct feeds it as he casts, lets it tap into his own energy to burn even brighter. Behind him, there's a cry of alarm, wordless, strangely high-pitched. But the creature's individual grains are clotting together, and Noct doesn't turn to see what the matter is. He only doubles down until the sand runs like liquid, molten heat. The ground around the creature is aflame now, and it collapses to the stone surface of the cave floor, writhing and gelatinous. 

As the spell burns itself out, the creature's motions grow stiffer, less fluid – until at last it hardens, a strange, vaguely humanoid sculpture of glass.

Noct wipes his brow with his bare forearm and returns the magic flask that contains his other fire spells to his pocket. 

He turns, a smile quirking the corner of his lips, words of congratulations for Ignis half-formed on his tongue.

They die unspoken at the sight that greets him. Because there, back pressed against the damp stone of the wall, is a small blond boy that looks about six years old.

He's absolutely swimming in Prompto's vest and coeurl-print jeans; the top comes down past his knees, so long it looks like a dress on him. Prompto's wrist band has slipped all the way up to the boy's bony elbow, dangling with room to spare, and Prompto's gloves swallow his hands and most of his wrists completely. 

One of Prompto's guns rests on the ground at the boy's feet. He's got the cylinder of the second open, while his free hand digs frantically in his pocket. But even as Noct watches, he does a quick sweep of the cylinder's contents with his eyes, snaps it closed, and brings the weapon up, two-handed, barrel trained on Noct.

The kid has great form – back straight, left hand supporting his right. His eyes, a blue that skirt the edges of violet, are narrowed in suspicion. There are freckles smattered across his nose and cheeks, above lips that aren't pressed tightly enough together to quite hide the way the lower one trembles. A bruise covers most of one cheek, deep black that's starting to go green with age.

"What the hell," says Noct, flatly.

"It would appear," says Ignis, "as though our enemy's final attack had an unanticipated side-effect."

And the kid says, "What is this place? What happened to the training facility?" His voice is high and reedy, not quite steady.

"We're in a series of caverns in the Duscae region," Ignis supplies, at the same moment Gladio says, "What training facility?"

They pause, each considering – share a long glance. Some wordless communication seems to pass between them.

"Is it just you three?" the kid says.

Noct lets his hands drift upward, palms open, the universal gesture for unarmed surrender. "Just us," he says. "C'mon, Prom, put the gun away and let's get you sorted."

"Don't call me that," says the kid – Prompto? – sharp and brittle. "I'm not gonna fall for it again." His eyes track sideways, toward the high arch that leads into the next cavern, then snap back to the three of them.

"All right," Ignis says, tone remarkably level. "What would you like to be called?"

The kid's lips press together even harder, making a thin white line. Prompto's eyes dart sideways again – linger longer, this time.

Then he bolts.

Or he would have, if his feet weren't caught in a pair of boots about six sizes too big for him. He yelps and goes down – frantically kicks one boot free. He's almost got the second one off when Gladio reaches down to take the gun.

The kid flinches backward, a full-body affair; too late, he makes a grab for the weapon, but it's already vanished in a glimmer of blue light, banished back to the Armiger along with the one on the cave floor.

Prompto stands frozen for half a beat, just staring up at Gladio – then he kicks the second boot free and takes off at a full on sprint. He makes it about five steps, trips on the jeans hanging down from his hips, then kicks those off too and keeps going.

"Highness –" Ignis starts to say.

But Noct already sees where this is going. Unarmed kid heading for a deep dark passageway filled with all sorts of nasties they haven't taken out yet. No way that's going to end well.

"Got him," says Noct, and warps off down the hall after Prompto.

He doesn't waste any time. There's no telling what that next cave might hold. He just wraps Prompto up in his arms and lifts.

The kid shrieks like he's being gutted – thrashes and kicks like his life depends on it. He's a tiny thing, hardly weighs anything, but he almost topples Noct anyway, from effort alone. "Gladio," Noct pants. "Little help?"

An instant later, the Shield's got his arms around the squirming bundle, and the kid's got his teeth buried in Gladio's arm.

Gladio roars with pain – jerks like he wants to drop Prompto and pull away – but at the last minute, he tightens his hold instead.

The kid flat out whimpers, kicking ineffectually at Gladio's muscular thighs for another few seconds until he seems to deflate, going limp and quiet. His eyes are very wide; he's breathing hard, and his chest is heaving.

Ignis joins them an instant later, one hand still buried in his pack. He's frowning, brow creased, and that's never a good sign. Sure enough, he says, "We seem to have used the last of our remedies earlier this afternoon."

Noct says, "What's wrong with him?"

"Time magic, I would presume," says Ignis.

"Well, yeah," says Noct. "But why is he _acting_ like this?"

Acting like this, at the moment, seems to comprise staying as still as he possibly can in Gladio's arms. His breathing hasn't slowed, and he's watching them all with wary eyes, but at least he's not trying to get away.

"That I couldn't say," says Ignis, though the reluctant way he draws the words out makes Noct think there's something he's not adding.

"Hey, Iggy," says Gladio. "We got any potions? Kid's bleeding."

Noct glances over, frowning, to see what he means – spots the patch of red starting to seep through Prompto's vest, high up on his shoulder.

"Yes," Ignis says. "Yes, of course."

He fishes one from the pack a moment later, holds it out above Prompto's bare arm and breaks the glass. Glowing liquid patters down onto the boy's skin, and he shudders, eyes falling closed. 

It takes Noct a few seconds too long to notice that the bruise on Prompto's cheek is still there. It takes him a few seconds after that for the implications to set in. Healing magic goes to the places it's needed the most first, after all.

"Give him another one," Noct says, voice surprisingly calm for the sudden wash of understanding that fills him up like cold water.

He doesn't want to think about that too hard. He doesn't.

It's easier if he tells himself the sand daemon must have doled out harder hits than they'd anticipated, and never mind that Prompto's vest is whole and untorn. Never mind that the bruise is old.

Never mind that these injuries have nothing to do with the battle they just finished.

Ignis breaks the second potion, and this time, thank the Six, the bruise fades out to the aged yellow of old parchment and then disappears entirely.

Prompto's looking at them, a measured stare from where he lies in Gladio's arms. There's a crease between his eyebrows, and the expression is so close to the one his Prompto wears while he's trying to work out a particularly challenging video game puzzle that Noct's chest does something strange and not entirely comfortable.

"You could leave this part off the report," says the boy, cautiously, like he's edging out onto a frozen lake with signs up warning about thin ice.

"What report?" Noct asks.

It must be the wrong thing to say, because Prompto closes in on himself, expression shuttering.

"Prompto," says Ignis, tone deliberately mild. "If we don't know what it is you want, we can't very well help. Can we?"

The boy is silent for so long that Noct's sure he won't answer. Then, finally, almost unwillingly: "My training report. You don't have to – don't have to say I ran. Right?"

Above the kid's head, Gladio's expression looks darker than summer storm clouds. "Who're we giving this thing to again?" he says, and his voice is so thick with the promise of violence that Noct has absolutely zero doubt about why he wants that information.

But Prompto's gone quiet again – is suddenly paler than before, face drawn. He's trembling, so hard it's actually visible where his small hand presses against Gladio's forearm. "Sorry," he says. "Forget it. Forget I said anything."

Noct doesn't want to put the pieces of this particular puzzle together. He doesn't. But they're all laid out on the floor, and it's hard not to see what's supposed to go where.

The bruise. The blood. The obvious weapons training.

The kid's face when Ignis used those potions on him, surprise and relief in equal parts.

Noct can feel the clues burrow in under his skin, like rot beneath the bark of a tree. It makes him feel sick.

He grits his teeth. He breathes through his nose for a count of five. Then he says, "No one's writing any kind of report. We're getting the hell out of here, and we're setting up camp, and we'll figure things out from there."

Prompto's face is a study in suspicion. Noct thinks it's a fair bet that he believed exactly none of that. But he doesn't say anything by way of protest, and he doesn't squirm to get away again, and that's something, isn't it?

"Got it," says Gladio. Then he angles his chin down a bit, to address the boy in his arms. "You wanna walk, kid, or are you gonna run for it again?"

Prompto shakes his head, so vehement it would be funny in any other situation. "I won't go anywhere."

The words are too quick – too sharp. There's fear beneath them, and the sound of it twists Noct's stomach. They can deal with that later, though. For right now, they need to get someplace safe.

Gladio's just about to set the boy down when Ignis cuts in, smooth and even. "I hardly suspect the cave floor will be kind to bare feet." 

All at once, Noct remembers Prompto's boots, discarded as useless. He thinks back to the icy running water they had to wade through in some of the chambers – the cruel edges of rock.

"Maybe you'd better hold onto him," Noct says. He tries to read Prompto's reaction to that – meets with something studiously blank.

"Sorry, kid," says Gladio, and straightens up again, adjusting his grip to something more comfortable for the long term. "Guess you're stuck with me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kind comments so far, guys! I'm excited to see how much interest there seems to be for this one. :)

The guards' camp is a room made of cloth. It's set up near a fire, four chairs, and a small table.

Prompto can't figure out what their plan is.

He's half sure they're trying to trick him into as many demerits as they can before calling an end to the training exercise, taking him back to the storage wing, and turning in the final report. If that's the case, he's failed for sure.

He's dropped a weapon during combat training (two demerits), failed to recognize that a weapon he was using was loaded (three demerits), failed to hit the target when he fired (one demerit per shot), responded to his old name instead of his designation number (two demerits), and, worst of all, attempted to escape again (ten demerits).

He's still well shy of the forty-five demerits that will warrant decommissioning, but this is bad enough. His worst report ever was only fifteen demerits, and he has nightmares sometimes about his punishment after that.

Prompto still has the marks from it.

So whatever's coming, he tries not to think too hard about it – hunches in on himself and wraps his arms around his knees. 

The guard with the black hair told Prompto to sit by the fire, so he's sitting by the fire. He's got a piece of cloth wrapped around his shoulders, too. It's an addition from the guard with the glasses, who said in his mild way that it would help keep the chill out.

It does help keep the chill out.

It's heavy and comfortable, and Prompto likes the feel of it wrapped around him. He's trying hard not to let that show – actively resisting the impulse to pull it closer and burrow in – because he's sure this is some kind of test, too. He's not sure what it's supposed to measure, or how he's meant to respond, but if he sits very still and pretends not to care whether it's there, maybe they'll let him keep it a bit longer.

He can hear them talking in low voices, far enough away so that Prompto can't pick out words, but close enough that he's sure they're keeping an eye on him. They're afraid he's going to run again, but they shouldn't be. There's nowhere to go, just green on the empty ground, and green standing up from the dirt on strange, tall stalks, everywhere he looks. 

Prompto's never seen anything like it. It's kind of pretty, actually.

The sun's low in the sky, not hazy with smog the way it gets in the courtyard at the base, and it's turning everything a faded sort of red-orange. Out below the guards' camp, there are funny animals with long necks walking around, bending from time to time to nibble at the green on the ground.

Prompto watches them until his eyes are heavy – blinks back sleep, and tries to sit up taller. The fire and the cloth around his shoulders are both very warm, and the hum of voices in the background is even and steady. No one's telling him to stand at attention, or drill on hand to hand combat, or scrub down the blood on the training room floor when they're finished. Nothing even hurts. Whatever the guard with the glasses poured on him earlier, it made everything stop hurting all at once.

It's nice. Really, really nice.

It makes Prompto wonder if this is the test – alertness levels, or combat readiness in the face of non-combat situations, or something like that. And he wants to do well, really he does. He can't afford another demerit.

But his eyes are slipping closed again, and it isn't long before the heaviness in his limbs drags him down into the hands of sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Prompto wakes up, everything's warm, and everything's soft, and something smells absolutely amazing.

He's curled up on his side, and there's some kind of cloth beneath him, and another cloth over him, and he can't remember where he is or why. There's a moment of dizzying confusion, because nothing is ever soft, or ever warm, and he's not on his feet at attention already, and that means he can expect hands on him, any second now, reminding him what he's meant to be doing.

Prompto scrambles up out of the pile of cloth an instant later, breathing hard, eyes wide. The guards are sitting in their chairs by the fire; they'd been talking, but they fall silent now, faces going strange and creased in ways Prompto doesn't understand.

The black-haired guard recovers first – gets his face back to something like normal and offers a crooked sort of smile. "We were wondering when you were gonna wake up."

That was the test, then: how long it would take him to return to acceptable alertness levels. Three potential enemy combatants less than four feet away, and he didn't even twitch.

How long has it been? The sky's dark above them, set with tiny points of light. The sun's long gone.

How many demerits does that mean? 

"Sorry," Prompto blurts, even though he knows – he _knows_ – that apologizing never helps.

And sure enough, the black-haired guard is waving him off. "Don't worry about it," he says.

The big guard, the one who carried him for miles like it was nothing, says, "You sleep okay?"

Prompto doesn't know how to answer that. He ducks his head, bites at his lip. Maybe they'll reconsider some of the reprimands in his report, if he owns up to his failure now. "I slept too long," he says.

"It is a bit late," says the guard with the glasses. "No matter, though. I set aside your dinner."

At the mention of dinner, Prompto's stomach gives a hopeful sort of twist. He lost his rations privileges yesterday, for taking too long on the new obstacle course in the training yard. His mouth is wet now, at even the thought of food. He swallows hard, and looks at the ground to keep from staring while the guard goes to fetch his protein bar.

That's why, a minute later, when Prompto reaches out to accept what he's given, he freezes mid-motion. Because the guard with the glasses isn't holding a protein bar at all. He has a bowl of some kind of liquid, a thin metal stick poking out one side. 

Now that it's right by him, Prompto realizes that this is where the amazing smell is coming from. It's rich and good, and it makes his stomach clench, so sharp and sudden that he wraps his arms around it, trying to quiet it down. He swallows again, harder than before.

But Prompto knows this exercise. They've practiced this one. He's learned the hard way that he's permitted rations only, and he can't afford any more demerits.

So he ignores the bowl that the guard with the glasses is holding – hunches his shoulders in and tries not to look. If he passes the test, they might still give him his protein bar.

The guard's got a strange expression on his face. He half-turns, to look at the other guards, then looks back at Prompto.

"Go on," he says. "Take it."

Prompto doesn't want to take it. It's hard enough trying to ignore the smell when he's not holding the bowl in his own two hands. But an order is an order, and he thinks he remembers the debrief after the last time they did this particular exercise involving words like willpower and resilience and self-control, so, well, it makes sense that it would get harder over time, right?

With shaking hands, he reaches out to accept the bowl – finds that it's warm against his palms. His stomach cramps again, and he bites at his lower lip, trying hard not to look.

They're all watching him, all three of them. He's not sure what he's doing wrong, but the longer he stands there, the less pleased their faces are getting.

At last, the guard with the black hair says, "Hey. At least try a bite."

Prompto sucks a sharp breath in, between his teeth. He expected the exercise to get harder, but that's – that's _too_ hard.

Still, an order is an order.

He nods, a jerky bob of his head, and examines the bowl in his hand.

The metal stick poking out of the end is the sort of scoop he's seen guards eat with before. The long end goes into your hand, and the round end goes into the food.

So Prompto shifts the dish to his left hand, supporting it. With his right, he picks up the food-scoop. It takes him two tries to get some of the liquid into the spoon, and he eyes the guard with the glasses, who's standing the closest. The man's lips curve up at the ends, and he gives Prompto a small nod.

Prompto takes a bite.

He nearly drops the bowl. His eyes go very wide, and he makes a small sound of surprise.

Because it's _good_. It's warm, and the taste is – it's – Prompto doesn't know. It's like nothing he's ever had before.

He wants to keep it for as long as he can, wants to hold on to the taste – because he's never going to get a chance like this again, and he knows it. But his stomach twists so hard it hurts, and Prompto swallows almost without meaning to, trying to calm it down.

He hates the guards, suddenly and fiercely. He hates the one with the black hair, most of all, for making him try it. Everything is so much harder, now that he knows how good it is.

But Prompto can't afford another demerit. He can't.

So he lowers the bowl as far from his face as he can manage. His hands are shaking; it's hard not to just tip the bowl up and gulp as much of the contents down as he's able, before they snatch it away. But he can do this. He can.

Prompto holds the bowl there, and he waits.

After a minute, the guard with the glasses frowns. "Not to your liking?"

Prompto just looks at him. If the man's making fun of him, he's going to cry. He might cry anyway; his throat's too tight, and his eyes are stinging.

"Prompto?" says the guard with the black hair, leaning forward in his chair, forehead creased.

That's it. That's all it takes.

The tears aren't a flood; Prompto knows better than that. They sneak out the corners of his eyes, silent, and he mostly keeps his chest from hitching funny when he breathes.

"Oh, Astrals," says the guard with the glasses, and he takes the bowl, and all Prompto can feel is relief that it isn't quite so near anymore.

Then the guard's wrapping arms around him, and Prompto flinches – catches himself – holds himself as still as he's able, trembling. He expects the pain to start any second. But a second becomes two, and then five, and then ten. The guard isn't doing anything but holding him.

The guard's hand finds Prompto's hair. He pets a little, the way Prompto saw a human child do for a small animal with floppy ears, once. It feels nice. But here he is, crying over what should be a standard training exercise, and he can't for the life of him imagine why he's being allowed anything nice right now.

The guard with the black hair is on his feet, Prompto realizes – is taking the bowl from the other guard and setting it aside before returning to hover nearby. The third guard, the big one, kicks over a chair, and Prompto flinches at the clattering sound when it goes down.

The arms around Prompto tighten, just slightly. "You're hardly helping," says the guard with the glasses.

Prompto bites down on his lip. "Sorry."

"Not you," says the guard with the black hair.

And the guard with the glasses says, "Hush, Prompto," and pets him more.

They stay like that for what has to be at least five minutes. Prompto's still tense, still trembling, but the arms around him are steady and warm. It feels like when he first woke up, by the fire, wrapped up in the weight of the cloth. Everything's soft edges, and the fingers petting through his hair are soothing. He feels the line of his shoulders relax, just slightly. The tears have stopped.

The guard with the glasses says, very quietly. "Are you all right?"

Prompto sneaks a look at his face, trying to decide what he means by that question. He wants a status update, plainly, but what a strange way to request one. "Functional," says Prompto. "Ready for assignment."

After a beat, the guard with the glasses tries again. "Why were you crying?"

"I won't do it again," says Prompto, quickly.

It's not what they want to hear. The guard with the black hair makes an unhappy noise – folds his arms across his chest. The big guard mutters something under his breath, inaudible from this distance.

And the guard with the glasses says, perfectly even, "It's fine that you did. I just want to know why."

It's not a direct question. Not quite. Still, the man's gaze is fixed on him, waiting. 

Prompto hesitates. If he admits that the test was too much, will they mark him down as a failure? 

"The bowl," Prompto says at last.

"What about the bowl?" the guard with the glasses asks.

Prompto bites at his lip again. He's all too aware of the bowl's presence, six feet away on the small table by the fire. He can still smell it, and the scent makes his legs feel wobbly. His stomach is twisted up into knots, like it hasn't been since his fifteen-demerit report, when they took away his rations privileges for three days.

"It was good," Prompto whispers.

"You were crying," echoes the black-haired guard, "because it was good."

Prompto nods – bites at his lip, fighting not to cry again so soon after he's sworn he won't. He says, "I passed the test though, right? I only took one bite, just like you said."

He's proud, a little. It was hard, but he did it. Willpower and resilience and self-control, just like the debriefing said. Maybe they'll be happy with him. Maybe he did a good enough job that they'll gloss over some of the earlier stuff, when they write the report.

But when Prompto sneaks a look, trying to gauge their reactions, he can tell right away: they're not happy.

The black-haired guard is staring at him, eyes wide. The hand petting his hair has gone very still. From somewhere behind them, the big guard circles into view. "Are you shitting me?" he says.

"Gladio," says the guard with the glasses, sharply.

And the big man actually looks guilty – mutters "Sorry, Iggy," under his breath.

But Prompto's busy watching the black-haired guard. He's the one that's moving already, snatching up the bowl from the fireside table. Two quick steps brings him back to Prompto, and the guard kneels down, so that the bowl is right beside him.

Prompto's eyes skitter away, fighting not to stare.

"Are you hungry?" the guard with the black hair demands.

Prompto's stomach clenches inside him, sharp and sudden. He bites his lip and nods.

"Then here," says the guard, and shoves the bowl toward him. "It's yours. As much as you want."

Prompto's sure he's heard wrong. He's _sure_. "As much as you want," sounds like something out of a dream.

He stares up into the guard's face. He stares at the bowl.

The guard with the glasses – Iggy? – lets go, and gives him a nudge toward it. "Go on," he says, gently.

Prompto takes an unsteady breath in. His fingers close around the dish, trembling. It has to be another test, right? There has to be some kind of catch.

If it's another test, maybe he can get a few good mouthfuls down before they take it away from him.

That's the thought that spurs him to motion. He doesn't bother with the food-scoop, just tips the bowl back and latches his mouth against the rim. His throat works as he swallows, and swallows, and swallows again. He's kind of shaking; his shoulders are hunched, arms drawn in, braced against the moment when someone will take the bowl back.

No one does. 

He drinks it down until it's gone, and no one takes it, and then he clutches the bowl tighter still and licks the edges, chasing the taste. No one takes it then, either.

When Prompto finally looks up, the three guards are watching him with strange expressions. The one called Iggy is somber and tired; the black-haired guard's eyes are too bright, like he might start crying; and the big guard, the one called Gladio, looks as though he plans to break the next thing that comes within striking distance.

"Thank you," Prompto breathes.

He's still not sure what's going on here, but he knows how many demerits he should have. He knows what he's supposed to be getting, for this level of performance, and it's nothing like warm cloth or gentle hands or food that's a thousand times better than anything he's dared to imagine.

"No problem," says the guard with the black hair. "Looks like you needed it."

He did. Prompto's only realizing now, an unfamiliar sort of relief spreading through him, exactly how much. 

But there's no time to dwell on it, because Iggy says, "Shall we get settled in again?"

Prompto doesn't know what he means. Not until the guard sits back in his chair again and says, "Prompto, if you'd be so kind as to join me?"

Prompto pads over to him, still clutching the empty bowl. He's not sure what to expect; everything he thinks he knows has been blown casually to pieces.

He shies back when Iggy reaches out his arms, but the man doesn't press forward. He only waits, expression calm, until Prompto squares his shoulders and comes close again.

Then Iggy says, "I'm going to pick you up. All right?"

Prompto considers this gravely. For as long as he can remember, touch has meant pain – but earlier, with the guard's arms around him, nothing had hurt. He wouldn't mind that again, the feel of fingers through his hair.

Tentatively, Prompto gives a tiny nod. Strong, elegant hands lift him as though he weighs nothing at all, and they settle him on Iggy's lap.

"A blanket, Noct, if you will?"

Noct must be the guard with the black hair, because he circles back around to the fire – scoops one of the pieces of cloth up off the ground. When he brings it over to drape it around Prompto's shoulders, the folds of it are still warm.

Iggy reaches a hand up, carefully, to pet his hair again.

And maybe he makes some gesture, something Prompto misses, because an instant later Gladio rights the chair he kicked down. He sits in it, and Noct in another, with Iggy in the middle.

They make no move to put Prompto back into storage. No one mentions starting a report.

Iggy takes the bowl from Prompto's hand, and he says, "We'll keep that for later, hm? In case you want more."

More. 

Prompto knows the concept, of course. He knows more ammo, more orders, more training. He's never heard it used this way before, though – tossed out like it's no big deal, like somehow this incredible thing might happen again at any moment.

Prompto's so busy being floored that he misses the start of what they're talking about. He comes in midway, when Noct's saying a hunt is right out.

"We could hit up the chocobo post," Gladio suggests. "Bet the kid would like that."

Kid? Are they talking about him?

Prompto stares between the men, wondering if somehow they haven't been fully briefed.

He's not a kid. He's not even human.

All at once, realization crashes over him. Suddenly, their strange behavior makes perfect sense. His eyes grow huge – trail down to his wrist, where the barcode is swallowed up by the oversized glove he's still wearing.

They think he's a person.

No wonder they allowed him people food. No wonder Iggy's hand is petting through his hair. No wonder he's wrapped in a blanket, full and warm, instead of being carted away to go into storage for the night or – worse yet, but more likely – transported to the correction chamber to make up for his demerits. 

He needs to show them his barcode immediately. He needs to identify himself and let them know they've made a mistake.

None of this is for him. Not really.

But a minute passes, and then another. The guards talk about eggs and toast for breakfast, and whether Wiz has a booster saddle, and finding Prompto clothes that will fit him.

Prompto doesn’t say anything.

The conversation drifts. The guards talk about how they ought to have a spare tire, and whether the fish out by Alstor Slough will be biting this late in the season, and how much rain they're supposed to get later in the week.

Prompto still doesn't say anything. He really, really needs to say something.

But some of the tension has slipped out of him, washed away now that he understands what's going on. He can lean into Iggy's arms, and that's okay. He can pull the blanket in closer, and that's fine, too.

They think he's a person. He's allowed to have things like that, for as long as it lasts.

It can't last, Prompto tries to tell himself sternly. He'll tell them any minute now.

But the world is soft and kind for once, and his eyelids are heavy, and the fingers in his hair are gentle. Before he can quite work up the will to confess, Prompto drifts off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you guys are amazing. Thank you so, so much for the comments and kudos. <3
> 
> Update: Please check out the end notes to see the art that the incredible [Kaciart](http://www.kaciart.tumblr.com) drew for this chapter!

Ignis is awake at 5:30 sharp, as per his usual schedule, but this time when he wakes, he knows almost at once that he's not alone.

Prompto is watching him, small face peering out from the interior of his sleeping bag. His expression is one of intent scrutiny and marked distrust, and really, given the evidence of the previous day, Ignis can't blame him.

To say the child has been mistreated does a vast disservice to the definition of the word understatement.

Ignis pitches his voice low when he says, "I'm off to start breakfast. Would you like to come with me?"

He's not entirely certain that he'll get a response, but after a moment that tousled blond head inclines in agreement. The boy squirms out of his sleeping bag, falling in behind Ignis as he unzips the tent and lets them outside.

It's not quite dawn yet; the air is brisk, and the sky is lovely, just starting to lighten to a pale pink. Prompto stands frozen near the tent entrance, looking up at it.

"Sunrises are rather striking, over the Duscaen arches," Ignis remarks, mildly, and pokes about in their supplies for a can of Ebony. He looks for something suitable for the child, as well, and finds a small box of milk, chilled with an ice magic charm. He thinks it's likely Noct's, but his highness will just have to share.

Ignis inserts the straw and offers the box to the child. "Thirsty?"

Prompto's hand reaches for the milk. He hesitates, draws back, and tugs nervously at the oversized gloves still hanging from his hands. They really do need to find the boy some clothes that will fit. Ignis had been hoping that the spell would prove short-lived, but evidently their opponent's magic was formidable, indeed. They'll need to care for the child as best they're able, until Prompto can be restored to his rightful age, or at the least until they can procure a remedy.

"It's all right," Ignis says, keeping his voice calm and level.

He's rewarded when Prompto reaches out again, with his left hand this time, and seizes the drink.

Ignis sets about preparing what he'll need for breakfast, but he keeps an eye on the child, all the while. He doesn't miss the way the boy goes dazed and a touch starry-eyed at the first sip of milk. There's certainly no mistaking the way he clutches the box as though it's something precious, scarcely pausing for breath until the contents are gone.

Gladio has the right idea, Ignis finds himself thinking, grimly. When all this is over, he would very much like to pay a call on whatever hideous excuses for human beings left these particular scars.

Small favors, though: the boy seems to have lost some of the hesitance of the night before.

Where yesterday, the child was avoidance through and through, today Prompto surprises him by initiating contact not once but twice. While he's cooking, Ignis finds a small hand clinging to the sleeve of his shirt. Then later, when Ignis settles in his chair with a second can of Ebony, the child drifts closer, transparently hopeful, and sets cautious fingers on his arm.

By seven o'clock, Prompto's worked his way through two eggs and a slice of toast, and he's sitting on Ignis' lap, legs tucked up against the chill of the morning.

He's not quite so tense today, thank the Six. He's sitting more like a child seeking affection, leaning into the fingers carding softly through his hair, and less like an abused animal waiting to be struck. Ignis isn't certain what brought on the change, but it's a step in the right direction. They still have quite a few miles to go, but every inch helps.

Ignis is so loathe to dislodge the boy that he lets their companions sleep in. Gladio stirs at quarter past eight, emerging from the tent to go running. Noct remains abed until ten, finally wandering out with bleary eyes and sleep-mussed hair to avail himself of cold eggs and toast. 

He offers half to Prompto, and the boy accepts with wide-eyed uncertainty. 

Ignis watches without a word. He makes two mental notes: that small, frequent snacks are probably going to be necessary for a time, and that the child doesn't let on when he needs something. 

It's nearly eleven by the time the camping gear is stowed and packed away, and standing by the Regalia, Ignis runs a quick assessment of their usual seating arrangements. When Gladio makes to reach for the back handle, he says, "Perhaps a change of pace."

Gladio lets go. His eyes trail out to Ignis, and then to Prompto. He says, "Sure. What've you got in mind?"

Someone will need to keep an eye on the boy. Ignis can't very well do it while he's driving, and the child's still giving Gladio a wide berth, edging around him when he needs to move past. It's the size, Ignis imagines, and the temper. Knocking that chair to the ground yesterday evening did the man no favors. _He_ knows that the king's Shield has a soft spot for children, doubtless left over from years of tending to a much younger sister, but Prompto will need time to learn.

So he says, "Join me in the front seat, Gladio, if you will? I believe I'll need a navigator today."

"Got it," says Gladio, and slides into the passenger's side.

Prompto takes longer to get settled, examining the car handle as though he's never seen one before. When he's seated, his feet dangle, unable to touch the floor. There are legalities in Insomnia, regarding how large a child has to be before sitting without a booster seat, but here in the countryside, Ignis has never seen one and they certainly don't have one on hand to use.

Ignis fastens the boy's seatbelt, though, ensuring it fits snugly. It's not until he catches a glimpse of Prompto's face, borderline panic, that it occurs to him how close the device is to restraints.

He unfastens it again immediately, telegraphing his motions before he makes them, but the damage is done. The child clenches his eyes shut and tries to catch his breath. 

"Hush," Ignis tells him, gently. "We won't use it. There, it's gone."

He strokes the child's hair, well aware already of the calming effect the contact seems to have. And Prompto, face pale and afraid, cracks open first one eye and then the other. He studies Ignis intently, as though he's a particularly challenging puzzle, and at last he nods cautiously.

Noct crawls into the back seat next to the boy. "Not like we need em, anyway. Iggy drives like an old lady."

Ignis fixes the king of Lucis with a level stare. "For all the times you sit on your seat back as though daring fate to do its worst, I'd think you would appreciate my caution a bit more."

Noct leans closer to Prompto and cups a hand to his mouth before adding, in a very loud stage whisper, "A fussy old lady."

The change in Prompto's expression is so minute that he nearly misses it, but there's no mistaking the way the corners of the boy's mouth soften. It's not quite a smile, but it skirts the edges of one.

"Hardly," says Ignis, but he straightens up with a smile of his own. "Some of us just don't drive like maniacs."

Not driving like a maniac entails following the speed limit, naturally, and that puts them at the chocobo ranch just past noon. Prompto is quiet for the trip, thoroughly absorbed in the scenery flying past outside the Regalia. From time to time Noct tries to engage him in idle chatter, and he answers readily enough if asked a direct question, but rarely offers extra contributions of his own. It's strange, matching this pallid, smaller version of Prompto with the exuberant man Ignis knows he'll grow up to become.

Gladio sets out to find clothing that will fit the boy as soon as they arrive, returning a short time later with child-sized chocobo print boxers and socks, bright yellow pants, bright yellow tennis shoes with white laces, and a shirt that declares "I love chocobos," though the word love is implied in the form of a heart, mottled yellow and orange.

Prompto eyes the new clothing with suspicion, but he disappears into the restroom readily enough to change into it at Ignis' urging. He reappears several minutes later, tugging awkwardly at the hem of his t-shirt. It fits better than his old clothes, certainly, but it's definitely for a much older child, hanging off the boy's narrow frame.

"Sorry," says Gladio. "This was the smallest one they had."

Thin fingers, still practically swallowed by Prompto's adult-sized gloves, trace their tentative way over the bright colors of the heart. "It's good this way," says Prompto, hesitantly.

"Splendid," says Ignis, eying the gloves. They look ridiculous, especially now that the boy's other clothes nearly fit. The bottom edges come up over his wrists, and the extra material bunches at the palms when he curls his hands. "Shall I put these with the rest of your old outfit?" he says, and reaches for them.

The reaction is instantaneous. Prompto clutches at the glove on his right hand, so hard the knuckles go white. He shrinks away, eyes huge, and Ignis takes a step back, and then another.

He says, "You prefer to keep them on?"

Prompto stares at him with wary eyes. He gives a hesitant nod.

"Then you shall." 

But the child keeps one hand clutched anxiously at the glove, as though he expects Ignis to change his mind at any moment. He clings to it as though it's the most precious thing in the world.

 

* * *

 

The chocobos are a hit. Gladio called that one from a mile away.

It's kinda cute; the kid stands there staring at one of the babies like it's an Astral given form, right up until Noct says, "Hey, check it out. She likes you."

Sure enough, the bird's drifting closer, a tiny ball of yellow fluff on her way to inspect Prompto's new shoes.

Gladio grins at the starstruck look on the kid's face. He says, "Want to sit with her?"

Prompto looks up at him. His eyes are huge, and he gives that careful nod of his, like he's afraid wanting something'll make it disappear.

Gladio pats the ground and says, "Go on, sit down," and he waits until the kid's settled before pressing some greens into his hand. "Now call her."

"Come here?" says Prompto, like he's not sure he's doing it right.

The chocochick had been eyeing the greens, anyway. At the invitation, she bobs her way over and flaps right into Prompto's lap. The kid gasps; the bird helps itself to a mouthful of greens.

And there it is, for the first time since that godsforsaken spell took hold: an actual smile.

It's like the sun coming out after a hurricane that's killed a dozen people. It's crooked and warm – Prompto's smile, the way he grins when he snaps a photo he's proud of. He looks up at them, excited, checking to see if they're seeing this.

Gladio can't help but smile in answer.

This is the way kids should be, dammit – not like yesterday, when Prompto was scared out of his mind. He'd been a tiny slip of a thing in Gladio's arms, punctuated with a frantic heartbeat and the seep of blood from an injury that shouldn't have been there in the first place. 

When this is over, Gladio's going to get some names, and he's going to pay a long visit to whatever cadre of assholes laid hands on the kid. 

By now, the chocochick's just about done with her greens. She's pecking at the kid's open palm, real delicate, picking up every last crumb. And the kid's loving it, right up until her tiny beak catches on the glove he freaked out over, earlier. The leather slides down toward his fingers as the bird tries to ferret out a scrap of green that's lodged beneath the strap. 

And there it is, plain as day, in ink on Prompto's wrist.

A barcode. A fucking _barcode_ , like he's shop inventory ready to go on sale.

Gladio says, "What the hell is that?" and his voice comes out a growl.

Prompto's just sitting there, frozen, face damn near sheet white. Gladio knows he's scaring the kid, knows he needs to tone it down, but every time he tries to take a deep breath, he thinks about some asshole holding down that scrawny wrist to stick needles in it, and he just about loses his mind.

He takes a couple steps away, trying to give the kid some space.

And Prompto says, "I was gonna say something. I swear."

"Hush, Prompto." That's Iggy, voice low and soothing, the way he'd talk to a skittish animal.

But the kid doesn't hush. He's on the edge of tears, gulping air like he's half-drowned. He says, "I just thought," and then he breaks off, like he's not sure what it was he thought, exactly.

Noct says, "Hey. Breathe, Prom. It's okay."

The kid's not listening, or maybe he can't hear. His eyes are screwed shut, and the chocochick, alarmed by how bad he's shaking, takes off at a trot.

Prompto doesn't even notice. He says, "I'm sorry," and his voice breaks, and then he's sobbing.

It's not the silent, bullshit, false-bravado tears from yesterday. The kid's full-on wailing, chest heaving, shoulders shaking, and Gladio's response to that is hardwired in. It's buried in growing up with an eight-year-younger sister, and before he's stopped to consider that maybe it's not the best idea to pick the kid up right now, he's already bent down to scoop Prompto into his arms.

The kid weighs nothing, and Gladio can feel every tiny shake as it rolls through him. He's still trying to talk, manages to get out, "I was gonna say something." The rest isn't as clear, but it sounds something like: "I just wanted a _day_."

"Ah, gods, kid," says Gladio, and bounces him a bit, the way he did when Iris was very small and she'd fuss before bedtime. "Hey, no one's mad. Okay?"

But Prompto's not slowing down. If anything, it gets worse. Gladio sets a broad palm against the kid's back and rubs in calming circles. He keeps it up a long time, until the hitching sobs die down to whimpers. At last, Prompto cries himself out and just kind of lies there, limp and exhausted, against his chest.

The kid snuffles – lifts his head maybe an inch, to stare at Iggy and Noct, then cranes his neck to look up at Gladio.

Prompto's voice is solemn and resigned when he says, "Are you still deciding?"

"Deciding what?" Ignis asks, cautiously.

"How to get rid of me," says the boy. "It's got to be – I'm up past sixty demerits, probably. The cut-off for decommissioning's forty-five."

"Decommissioning," Noct echoes, flat and horrified.

He sounds about how Gladio feels – shell-shocked, the way you get when something's too big to process, so awful your mind won't quite wrap around it.

Prompto nods, and his breath hitches, but he doesn't start to cry again. "I'm broke, right? I didn't even tell you." The kid's trying to be stoic, but his voice wavers, then breaks. "I let you think I was a person the whole time."

Ignis sucks a sharp breath in. Noct's face goes shuttered and strange, like it does when he has to handle something he doesn't like. And Gladio – Gladio's never wanted to eviscerate a complete stranger more than he does in this very moment.

"That," he grinds out, "is absolute bullshit."

Prompto blinks up at him, lashes still wet with tears, face red and blotchy. He ducks his head and reaches, carefully, to pull back the glove covering his wrist. The barcode is waiting there underneath, like a scorpion under a rock.

"It's not," he says. "It's true." The kid takes a shuddering breath in. Then he says, in a blank, disaffected tone, like he's said it a thousand times before: "MT unit NH-01987, reporting for duty. Status: functional. Ready for assignment."

There's a long beat while Gladio tries to take that in. The number's what stymies him first; it's fucking sick, giving a little kid some code instead of a name.  Then the rest catches up. The word "MT" jangles around in his head like a cog that's come loose.

Before Gladio can say anything, or even really chase that thought all the way to the finish line, Noct beats him to it – sets his jaw, and seizes Prompto's wrist. He slides off the glove and takes the much smaller hand in his own, pressing his thumbs to the rectangle of ink that mars the skin.

For an instant, there's so much of Noct's father in his face, earnest and somber.

"Listen to me," Noct says, voice not quite even. "I don't care about some serial number. You're _Prompto_."

Prompto says, "Responding to unauthorized designations will result in further demerits." The words are quiet – flat, with no emphasis, like he's reading from a textbook.

Ignis presses his lips together into a thin, white line. "Then it's for the best that no one here is keeping track of demerits, isn't it?"

Prompto looks at Ignis with those huge puppy-dog eyes of his. He looks at Noct, and then at his own hand, encased in Noct's fingers. He says, "But," and his mouth works, like it can't quite find what he wants to say. "But I."

"Look, kiddo," says Gladio. "Wherever you were before, you're here now. And if anyone tries to lay a hand on you, we're gonna kick their ass."

Prompto doesn't believe it, but it's pretty damn obvious how much he wants to. Gladio can tell; the kid's got this look on his face, hopeful and hurting all at once. "But I'm not a person," he finally manages, tone pleading. "You're making a mistake."

"You think I don't know how to tell a person?" Noct demands. "You eat, right? You were crying. Hell, you even bled before."

And Ignis puts in: "No one's going to decommission you, Prompto." He reaches up, very carefully, to run his fingers through the kid's hair. "We're not going to hurt you."

Prompto actually shudders. The poor kid's got this look on his face, like someone just handed him the one thing he wants and he's too terrified to reach out and take it. 

"Hey," Gladio says. "Breathe, kiddo. You're gonna be okay."

Prompto lets go of the breath he was holding. He looks on the edge of tears again, eyes watery and lip trembling. But that million-watt smile's back, too, crooked and kind of amazed, so bright it hurts to look at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you times a MILLION to the amazing Kaciart, who did some incredible art for this fic. Thank you so muuuuuuch. Aaaaaaaah, I'm screaming forever. 8D
> 
> [Gladio holding a crying baby Prom](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/163148003013)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, you guys. Seeing the response to this fic has been incredible. Thank you so, so much to everyone who stopped by the leave kudos or comments!
> 
> This fic's all wrapped up, but please feel free to check out my other stuff in the fandom, and I'll definitely be writing more in the future. Hope you enjoy! :)

Prompto's pretty worn out after the meltdown over his tattoo, and Noct can't really blame him. He feels like he's about one more terrible revelation away from a meltdown, himself.

Every time he thinks about some scientist in a lab coat or some military drill instructor hurting Prompto bad enough to make him act the way he's been acting, he feels like he's going to puke.

He's just – he's _Prompto_. He's bright smiles and casual tactile affection. He's nights up late lying on the couch, eating popcorn and watching bad movies. He's stupid dares and dumb freshmen-year crushes and the best-intentioned, worst-executed birthday present Noct has ever had the good fortune to receive.

His brain can't quite wrap itself around the idea that anyone would want to hurt _Prompto_.

But apparently, someone did, and that someone is the whole godsdamned Niflheim military. If Noct hadn't been set on tearing the Empire down before, he definitely is now. The hell of it is, a whole wall of MTs are going to stand in between him and that goal – and now Noct knows. Under that armor, each and every one of them probably started out the same way Prompto did. The only difference is, he got away.

Noct shuts that train of thought down so fast it almost goes off the rails. He takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself.

It's hard, with Prompto half-asleep in Gladio's arms, eyes still swollen from crying.

Thank the gods for Ignis. Even while Noct's thoughts are floundering, trying to make sense of the world, Specs is making a plan. He says: "Let's divide and conquer, shall we? We need lunch, and after that I think we'd be well-advised to put Prompto down for a bit of a nap."

And Noct says, "Yeah, sure, sounds good," probably a bit too quickly.

Ignis goes to get the sandwiches, and Noct trails Gladio over to the caravan – fishes thirty gil out of his pocket for the coin slot, and slides them in one after the next, until the door unlocks.

"Okay, kiddo," says Gladio, when they're inside. "Let's get you ready to bunk down."

But before he can set the kid on the narrow caravan bed, Noct finds himself saying, "Shouldn't we get him cleaned up first?"

He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't; plainly the kid's exhausted.

Only, Prompto can't stand tracking dirt into hotel beds. Even dead tired, he'll wait around for his turn in the bathroom before cannonballing into the blankets when he's done. He told Noct once that they camp so much, these days, it feels like a waste of clean sheets, getting road dust all over them.

Maybe Gladio's remembering the same thing, because his eyebrows climb, thoughtful. He sets Prompto down on his feet, instead. "Be my guest."

Prompto stares up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Gladio leans against the wall, plainly waiting.

So Noct opens up the door to the caravan bathroom. He shows Prompto the faucet, and he has to explain that no, it's not always cold, and yes, it's okay for him to touch it. He has to show him the soap, and the shampoo, and the conditioner, and walk the kid through how to use them all.

By the time he's done and Prompto's disappeared into the shower with the rush of water, Noct feels like he wants to collapse on the bed and sleep for a hundred years. 

He gets it ready for Prompto, instead. Then he pulls out another pair of kid-sized boxers, this one with a cactuar print, and Prompto's red shirt. It'll be huge on him, but it ought to work as a nightshirt.

It's not long before the shower turns off, and Noct raps a knuckle on the door and calls: "Clean clothes incoming. Get dressed, kay?" Then he cracks the door open and sticks them through.

A minute later, Prompto emerges in the new outfit, still absolutely soaking wet. Like, hair still dripping, clothes now also soaked, probably going to be freezing in about five minutes wet.

Noct just looks at him for a beat, nonplussed. He can feel the weight of Gladio's stare on them both – wonders if his Shield feels the same sick sense of despair at the realization that a kid this old doesn't know how basic creature comforts work.

Noct closes his eyes. He takes a slow breath in. Then he steers Prompto back into the bathroom and says, "Okay, Prom, this here's a towel," and walks him through that, too.

Prompto's clothes from yesterday are still gross and bloody from their trip through the cave, but he's got a pair of clean adult-sized boxers at the bottom of his pack. So Noct fishes those out, and his own white t-shirt, and circles back around to the bathroom.

"Take two," he says, and hands them over.

When Prompto comes out again, he's practically swimming in them.

But he's clean, and he's dry, and Noct counts that as a win. Gladio lifts the kid up onto the caravan bed and tucks the blanket around his shoulders, and Noct sits down next to him, and that's about when the door creaks open to let Ignis in.

"Lunch is served," he announces.

The sandwiches are good – crisp lettuce and thin-cut dualhorn steak on rye. They're big, too; Ignis gives Prompto half, and wraps the rest up for later. The kid eats like it's been years since the last time he had a meal, instead of just three hours, and the whole time he sits pressed against Noct's side, a small warm presence tucked up there by his elbow.

After, Ignis brings out a damp cloth and wipes Prompto's face and hands. His voice is fond when he says, "Let's get you to bed, then."

Noct pats the pillow. "C'mon, Prom."

It's hard to miss the expression on Prompto's face when he lies down. It's cagey, and hopeful, and trying so damn hard not to give anything away. His hands tighten on the blanket as soon as Ignis pulls it up over his shoulders.

Something in Noct's chest flips over, in painful slow motion, at the sight of his too-pale face against the rumpled white of the caravan pillow.

The poor kid looks about a million miles away from sleep, and Noct has a brief, too-vivid recollection of a sleepless night when he was probably about this age. It comes all at once, painful and bittersweet: his father's hand stroking through his hair, cultured voice painting pictures of an adventure through the Duscaen countryside.

"Hey," he finds himself saying. "How bout a bedtime story?"

 

* * *

 

Prompto wakes up sprawled across a rumpled pile of sheets, Noct smushed up beside him.

For a minute, he can't remember where he is, or how he got there, or why in the name of the Six he's sharing a caravan bed that's barely big enough for one.

The last thing he remembers is the dim and unpleasantly claustrophobic interior of a cave filled with daemons. He has vague recollections of some kind of sand monster, and breathing in at exactly the wrong time, and then – then nothing.

There's a hazy place in his memory, like a scum of film over water. He thinks that if he picks at it, it might come clear.

He's not entirely sure he wants to pick at it. But then, Prompto's never really been the best at listening to the voice in the back of his mind that most people call common sense. The urge to dig – to find out – is sitting there, half buried, like an itch he can't scratch. It's just daring him to try.

So he tries.

Everything comes flooding back at once – like a dam breaking, complete with thousands of gallons of water rushing out to drown the whole city. He remembers the transformation, and his own skittish incompetence. He remembers a confession he never, ever wanted to give and, suddenly frantic, his eyes fall to his own wrist.

The wrist band is gone. So are the gloves. He's in a pair of his own boxers and Noct's white t-shirt, and the barcode on his skin sits there, uncovered, staring up at him.

The sight makes him feel physically ill.

He's buried that part of himself down so deep, hidden those memories under so many layers of mental padding, that on his good days he mostly manages not to think about it anymore. On his good days, he can just be Prompto, the boy he finally got to meet when he first came to Insomnia.

There are bad days, too, though. Days when he still wakes up from the nightmares, screaming.

It feels like he's trapped in a nightmare now – some horror show concoction of his sleeping mind. It's got the same slow, creeping sense of dread, the absolute certainty of impending doom.

Carefully, he disentangles himself from Noct and pushes himself up to sitting. The words "they know" keep pounding through his head like a particularly determined drummer trying to smash open his skull while he's nursing a hangover.

Prompto buries his face in his hands.

And he must make some noise – or maybe he's just moving around too much – because Noct makes a sleepy, inquisitive sound beside him.

"Go back to sleep," says Prompto. "Everything's cool."

Wrong thing to say. Or maybe it's just his voice, a lot lower-pitched than it was an hour ago.

Noct sits up so abruptly he almost smacks his head on the low-hanging beam that separates the caravan bunk from the rest of the living space. Prompto doesn't think he's ever seen him wake up that fast. It'd be funny, in any other circumstances. He'd be reaching for his camera, to commemorate the occasion.

Prompto doesn't move.

And for a minute, Noct just sits there looking him over, face intent and watchful. "Hey," he says. "Welcome back."

Prompto lets his eyes slide away, to study the crack on the crappy laminate flooring. "Glad to _be_ back."

And oh gods, is he. He doesn't realize how much it's true until the words are out, but all at once it wells up in his throat, so sudden it feels like it's going to choke him. The memories of the past day are jangling around in him, sharp edges so close to the surface that they might cut. He remembers the terror of impending punishment, the raw desperation for something to eat, the tentative, unexpected pleasure when physical contact _didn't_ come with pain.

"How much do you remember?" Noct says, voice pitched low and cautious.

Prompto swallows. "Everything."

"Ah," says Noct. He's silent for a beat, as though considering what that entails. Then he says: "C'mere, Prom."

He gets an arm around Prompto's back – drags him in close, so that Prompto's leaning up against the side of him.

It's nice.

Even better, he knows that his best friend's not going to change his mind halfway and belt him across the face for messing up some arbitrary training assignment that no one bothered to explain.

Prompto lets out a shaky breath – forces himself to relax. He sinks his weight into Noct, until his head's resting on Noct's shoulder. That long-ago child's need for affection is still thrumming through him, damn near overwhelming.

They stay like that for a while, just sitting. Prompto stares at the crack on the floor, and he tries to keep his thoughts from wandering too much. They're going in circles, though, dizzying spirals, and they keep bringing him back to the same place.  At last he says, "You mad I never said anything?"

Noct reaches out, amiably, to poke him in the side. "Don't be stupid."

"I mean," Prompto says. "I didn't even want to think about it, you know? Never mind talk about it."

"Yeah," says Noct. His voice is thick, and Prompto tries not to read too much into that. "I bet."

There's another long beat of silence.

Prompto says, reluctantly, "And I never really," but then the words stick. The rest of the sentence feels like it's caught in his throat, sharp as one of Noct's fish hooks.

Noct shifts beside him. "Never really what?"

Prompto's looking at the crack on the floor like it holds all the secrets to the universe. When the moment stretches too long, he shifts his gaze to something closer at hand: the blanket on the caravan bed. It's blue wool, and he traces the fuzzy surface of it with the tip of a finger.

"Knew for sure," says Prompto, eventually. "What you'd do. I mean, what's it got to look like, some Imperial weapon cozying up to the prince?"

Noct pulls away, so suddenly that Prompto almost goes over sideways. "Look at me," he demands.

Prompto does, and the expression on Noct's face is one he's never seen before. It's _angry_ – fierce and stubborn, eyes alight with something Prompto can't place.

"Are you telling me," Noct says, "All this time, you thought I'd – what? Cut you off? Cause of something someone did to you when you were just a kid?"

Prompto's thought a lot worse than that. He's had rough nights, when he was unable to get ahold of his own mind, spent imagining with excruciating detail how every facet of his life would fall apart. Back in high school, there was a whole semester when he woke up every morning, heart still pounding, from a recurring dream that Noct's dad had found out and sentenced him as a Niflheim spy.

All Prompto says is, "I don't know. I mean, people talk, right? MTs aren't exactly popular in Insomnia."

Probably about the understatement of the century. Prompto's heard it all: empty, and creepy, and _fake_. He knows the drill. He knows exactly how 99.9 percent of the Lucian population would have reacted to some Niff war machine living inside the wall, where it was supposed to be safe.

But Noct, apparently, is the .1 percent, because he's saying, "You think I care about that?"

For a second, Prompto can't answer. Gratitude, apparently, is something sweet and immediate, so breathtaking it steals his voice from him.

"Guess not," he manages, eventually. "I mean, you're still here, right?"

Noct fixes him with that look again, searching and intense. "Damn right I am," he says.

And he reaches out to take Prompto's right hand in his own – lets his thumb sweep down to touch the barcode, the way it had when that hand was much smaller.

Prompto feels something go a bit funny in his chest, tight and too warm. His eyes kind of sting, and he's trying to keep his mouth set in a disinterested line, but he'd be willing to bet it's not working out very well.

He leans to one side, so that Noct's pressed up against him again, taking most of his weight. "Thanks, buddy," he says.

They stay like that for a long time. Half an hour, maybe, just sitting together. He's starting to drowse again when the door to the caravan clicks open and Ignis steps inside.

"Ah," he says, and reaches up to adjust his glasses. "I was hoping it might have run its course."

Gladio's right behind him. He says, "Thank the gods," and then, in the same breath: "Tell me you've got names."

Prompto blinks up at them both from his spot resting against Noct's shoulder. "Huh?"

"Gladio," Ignis cuts in, smoothly. "It's hardly the time."

Gladio shoots Ignis a look that packs a whole lot of subtext into one even stare. "Perfect time, the way I see it. There's a hell of a lot of people that've been walking around and breathing for about fifteen years too long, already."

"Aww," says Prompto. One corner of his mouth quirks up into a tired, crooked sort of smile. "You gonna shank the whole army for me, big guy?"

"If that's what it takes," says Gladio, and the expression on his face is downright murderous.

Once, in middle school, Prompto's class went to the Insomnian Museum of Fine Art. There was a painting there, damn near twenty feet tall, of the Astrals looking down on man. The Infernian's face was like that, hard and dark, a promise of blood.

"No offense," Prompto tells him. "But I kind of want to eat the rest of that sandwich, go back to sleep, and pretend this never happened."

"Hmm," says Ignis, thoughtfully. It's the kind of sound that's hard to place. It could be disapproving, or understanding, or completely neutral. But he crosses to the caravan's mini-fridge to get out the rest of the sandwich, and that's good enough for Prompto.

When he brings it back, he gives Prompto a considering look as he hands it over. Then he sits down on the caravan bed beside him, close enough to touch, on the opposite side from Noct.

The contact reminds Prompto, abruptly, of that first night and the morning after, sitting in the camp chair with Ignis' fingers smoothing through his hair. He can feel his face starting to burn – mutters, "Thanks, Iggy," as he unwraps the sandwich.

And it's not just like nothing ever happened. It's not.

Because Noct and Ignis are pressed up against him while he eats, so close he can feel them moving when they breathe. And Gladio drops any mention of a revenge crusade – but he leans against the caravan wall, instead, arms folded over his chest, unusually attentive.

He's got about the best friends in the world, Prompto thinks, when the conversation lurches into tentative life.

Because they're talking about a rocky vista nearby that might be a good photo op, and whether they should extend their lease on the chocobo rental since they're here, and where they can pick up some leukorn steak to make meat pies tonight.

At his side, Noct's thumb is still over the rectangle of ink etched into his wrist. And for the first time ever, the thought of the barcode doesn't make Prompto's skin crawl.

For the first time ever, Prompto starts to think that maybe it's time to let the past stay in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who'd like to see an epilogue for this fic, someone asked for a follow-up when I opened up for requests.
> 
> [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685525/chapters/26571909) of my drabble collection now has a mini-epilogue. Enjoy! :)


End file.
